


The Measure of a Man

by parabolica (orphan_account)



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 06:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12360009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/parabolica
Summary: “A man has but one chance to create a first impression, Micheletto. Our appearance goes ahead of us, a harbinger before our tongues engage. The clothing we elect to wear offers an insight into our true nature.”





	The Measure of a Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brodeurbunny30](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodeurbunny30/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, brodeurbunny30! I loved your prompt and... kinda twisted it a bit. Hope you like it, and Happy New Year!

“A man’s clothes should speak for him, should they not?” Cesare is in a quizzical mood, apparently entertained both by the day and the promise it holds. “A cleric should dress modestly, a prince should appear magnificent… What if the man is both cleric and prince, how then should he dress?”

Micheletto weighs his reply before making it. “He must find a way to satisfy both sides of his nature.”

A flash of bright eyes, a tumble of glossy dark curls. Cesare is laughing at him. “Is it possible? Have you reconciled both sides of your nature, my friend?”

Micheletto is silent. To what does his master allude—his preference for male flesh, or the lies he tells his mother, that he is a medical student rather than a murderer? Rather than answer, he does his job: He scans the crowd moving along the paved street, watching for threats. A drunk slumps against a barrel; a dog urinates against a wall. Children flit from the pavement into the road, swerving to avoid the wheels of a cart. Ahead, two men argue over the price of fish.

A woman, seemingly mazed, stumbles into passers-by, cutting their purses before she reels away. Cesare is a tempting target; she traces her steps closer, smiling and smiling. Micheletto makes a gesture, hand dropping to his knife, and she prudently changes direction.

Micheletto takes a breath, inhaling woodsmoke and animal dung and the expensive scent Cesare wears on his skin. “I think you dress to please yourself rather than whatever station you hold.”

“Wise words. I wish you would repeat them to my sister.” Cesare grins. “She calls me a peacock. ‘Fie, brother,’ she teases, ‘you own more doublets than I possess gowns!’”

“Not a peacock, but a raven,” Micheletto says, relaxing his vigilance enough to cast a look over his master’s outfit. “Peacocks have too much colour, and they lack wit.”

Cesare’s laughter rings out. “I believe you flatter me.”

Micheletto shrugs, lifts his watchful gaze to the windows overhead as the street narrows. “It was not my intention, my lord.”

“Nonetheless… Ravens are acquisitive birds. Carrion birds. If our family did not already carry the symbol of the bull, a raven would suffice.”

Cesare wears black, unrelieved but for the glint of silver thread, a tiny peek of white linen at the collar and beneath the laced arms of his doublet. His half-cloak is black velvet that soaks in the autumn sunlight, his boots are black leather. His breeches are also of black leather, but of the supple kind, cut not to flatter but to proclaim the truth.

The light catches in his hair and glimmers on the hilt of his sword. He must be aware of the effect he creates, the sidelong looks and blatant gazes aimed his way, but for now the audience is ignored, and Cesare plays but to a sole spectator.

“A man has but one chance to create a first impression, Micheletto. Our appearance goes ahead of us, a harbinger before our tongues engage. The clothing we elect to wear offers an insight into our true nature.”

“Indeed, my lord.” That was true enough. Micheletto wears drab colours so he can blend into the background. He chooses his clothes for comfort, for the range of movement and the protection they offer. His first master, Orsini, was conservative in his outward appearance but liked to wear garments of wool and linen against his skin. Mixing those fabrics was forbidden, according to the Bible. Orsini found it amusing to defy the edicts of the Old Testament, but only when it suited him.

The street widens again, and they turn onto Via del Corso. People throng the thoroughfare; a multitude of languages can be heard. Dusty travellers coax on their tired horses. Couriers from Ravenna pass amongst pages resplendent in the livery of whatever noble house they serve; wives and mistresses peer out of carriages decorated with the arms of their owners. Itinerant monks in stained robes wander past mutilated beggars in the gutter, all with wooden bowls held out in a plea for alms.

“When I was a child,” Cesare says over the clop of hooves and the babble of conversation, “my favourite story was that of Joseph. I longed for a coat of many colours, and begged my parents for one. Do you know what my father said?”

“I cannot guess, my lord.”

A faint smile, almost wistful, slides over Cesare’s lips. “He said white is the best colour for a coat.”

“White?”

Cesare laughs. “He was a cardinal, proud of the red he wore, but even then his sights were set upon the white of the papal robes. For as he told me, white contains all the colours of the world, in every hue and tone. It absorbs them. Reflects them.”

Micheletto frowns. “White is said to be the colour of purity.”

“Not necessarily.” A quicksilver look. “My father taught me that. It absorbs even the deepest shade of black and washes it clean.”

Shaking his head, Micheletto snorts. “You turn to matters of theology, master, where I cannot follow.”

Cesare slaps Micheletto’s shoulder playfully, then keeps his hand there, the touch lingering, burning through the cloth of Micheletto’s shirt. They stroll along like two friends rather than master and servant, and soon they leave the Via del Corso for narrower streets and more specialised wares.

The crowds thin out, become more discerning. Women haggle over a length of dyed linen. A cobbler sits outside his shop, banging nails into a shoe while a customer looks on.

“My mother offered to make me a coat of many colours.” Cesare resumes the conversation, his voice distant as he looks into the past. “I chose off-cuts from her gowns, silk and velvet and brocade; and from Lucrezia’s dresses, which were miniature versions of our mother’s, I selected ribbons to lace the coat.”

“I cannot imagine you in colours.”

Cesare drops his arm from Micheletto’s shoulder. “Neither can I.”

“What happened to the coat?”

“My brother Juan threw it into the well in our courtyard. It was only half a coat, barely formed, but he took it from Mother’s sewing table and tore out the stitches and hurled it into the well.” His smile is faint, lanced with another emotion. “Joseph forgave his brothers, of course. I did not.”

Micheletto bows his head. “With respect, my lord, your brother was never a man to deserve forgiveness.”

Cesare nods, and they continue in silence to Piazza di Pasquino, past the battered statue placed at the fork in the road, until they reach a non-descript shop front with its shutters closed and its door shut tight.

“There are those in the curia who advocate being clothed in the garments of salvation.” Cesare raises his hand and knocks on the door, hard. “I prefer to be dressed by Signor Starnocchio.”

*

The interior of the shop is dark and warm and smells of leather. Animal hides of every hue and stripe are hung from a rack, sliced into segments so that customers can feel the quality and texture. Starnocchio greets Cesare without a hint of obsequiousness, slapping him on the back and chiding him for using inferior leather on the cuffs of his doublet.

They are shown through into a back room, windowless, lit by lamps. A cutting table crowds against the wall, its surface covered with patterns and pieces of leather cut and shaped and in the process of being stitched. Micheletto notices awls and knives, scissors and needles and thick, waxed thread. He takes up position at the door, leaning against the jamb.

Starnocchio shares a few more words with Cesare, then leaves them to his assistant. A young man, Micheletto notes, with dark blond hair smoothed to the fine shape of his skull. He’s a pretty creature, his neck long and his mouth wide. His hands have an elegant shape, though they are scarred from past accidents and calloused from his work.

The youth darts a glance between Micheletto and Cesare. “How can I be of service, my lord?”

“I need another pair of breeches.” Cesare is at his ease, unbuckling his sword belt. “Much like these, but with more detail along the outer seams.” He hands his sword to Micheletto, forcing him to step forward into the glow of light.

“Yes, my lord.” Turning away for a moment, the young man picks up a measuring string and a scrap of paper, then scrabbles amongst the detritus on the table for a stub of charcoal.

Micheletto settles himself against the wall to watch.

The assistant kneels, fluidly and without hesitation, to remove Cesare’s boots. Murmuring for permission, he waits for Cesare to balance first on one leg, then the other. He sets the boots aside with care, as if they were a sacred relic. While the boy lingers on this task, Cesare removes his cloak and loosens the laces on his doublet, shrugging a little so his linen undershirt drapes to the lines of his body.

His dark curls caress his neck. Cesare runs his hand through them, a casual gesture that ensures all attention is on him. Only then does he strip out of his leather breeches—slowly, slowly, making a game of it, a tease more suitable for the bedchamber than the back room of a shop.

Strong thighs are revealed. The flash of dark hair curling at the crotch. The shape of his cock and balls exposed by the snug fit of the loincloth.

The room seems to shrink. Lamplight gilds naked skin, licking a path along muscles and tendons. The smell of leather, warm, pungent, animal, fills the air.

Body tight with tension, Micheletto stares. He has to remind himself to relax his grip on Cesare’s sword.

The assistant visibly gulps. When he begins to take Cesare’s measurements, he does so with shaking hands.

“We were discussing clothing on our way here,” Cesare says conversationally, as if unaware of the effect he was having. “How should a prince of the Church dress?”

The youth’s answer is garbled. He has to repeat himself. “However he pleases, my lord.”

“His answer has a simplicity that yours lacked.” Cesare’s eyes twinkle at Micheletto. Addressing the boy again, he asks, “What leather would you recommend for these new breeches? My sister has a pair of rose-tanned gloves. Would it be possible to tan the leather with another oil—sandalwood, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. I do not know. Signor Starnocchio will advise you.”

“If not rose-tanned leather, what would you recommend?”

Gathering his courage, the assistant looks up. “For you, my lord, brain-tanned leather. It is soft and supple and flexible.”

Cesare gives a lazy grin. “That sounds ideal. And the design of the codpiece?”

The youth licks his lips. “Quilted, but lightly. Subtly is key in that area. And it should be lined with silk. Scarlet silk.”

Micheletto watches the assistant’s hands on his master, watches the slow crawl of calloused fingers over taut flesh. He watches as the lad forgets to write down the measurements and begins again, fumbling with the measuring string.

“Your name, boy. What is it?” Micheletto may have been a stray dog, but he is a loyal hound now, and dogs are territorial.

The assistant turns his face up to Micheletto, all blue eyes and pouted lips. He blushes when he meets Micheletto’s gaze. “Gabriele, sir.”

Cesare snorts.

“Like the angel.” Micheletto glowers. The boy’s blush deepens into confusion and he drops the charcoal.

“The archangel,” Cesare corrects, sounding amused. “But then, you are named for an archangel too, Micheletto, are you not?”

Micheletto gives his master a savage look that makes Cesare throw back his head and laugh.

Gabriele scrambles to retrieve the charcoal stub, but it has rolled beneath the table. Micheletto tracked its progress; he crouches, hand firmly on the sword. The belt buckle jingles.

Gabriele’s gaze flicks to Micheletto’s reaching hand, then to his face, then to… elsewhere.

Micheletto restrains a faint smile. He picks up the charcoal with his free hand and holds it out. “Archangels are dangerous. They burn those without grace.”

Gabriele darts a glance towards Cesare. He wets his lips again with the tip of his tongue; looks back at Micheletto. “But for all their power,” he says softly, “they remain in thrall to a higher dignitary.”

“That is so.” Micheletto holds the boy’s gaze, aware all the while of Cesare’s amused benevolence. Then he stands. “Come, boy. Complete your task. We have other business.”

The measurements continue. Gabriele asks Cesare to turn and runs the string the length of his legs. The room is silent, pulsing, heat curling, Micheletto and Gabriele both admiring high, firm buttocks and the play of strong muscles. Cesare is relaxed, at ease with his audience; when he turns again, he’s aroused and unashamed, smiling down at them like the Holy Father blessing an unruly flock.

Micheletto knows his master is not aroused by them, but by their silent appreciation. Adoration, almost. Cesare does not need clothes to impress. He is enrobed in charisma, content in the gifts of his body. He can command with the twitch of an eyebrow, the lifting of a finger. He has no need of silks and cloth-of-gold to demonstrate his power.

“All done, my lord.” Gabriele bows his head. “Shall I assist you in dressing?”

“No need.” Cesare dresses himself, movements quick and deft. He smiles at Micheletto when he takes his sword belt. “Settle my account. I’ll be waiting outside.”

*

It’s not long before Micheletto rejoins his master in the tavern on the other side of the square. Cesare looks at him in amusement and raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

Micheletto wipes the taste of the boy from his lips and takes a sip of wine from his master’s cup. “The boy is a fast worker, and skilled.” He pauses just long enough. “The garment will be ready by tomorrow eve.”

Cesare laughs and draws Micheletto down onto the bench beside him, calling for another jug of wine.


End file.
